The Way I Loved You
by ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo
Summary: She missed screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain. The red rose on his grave was supposed to be a goodbye, but she would be seeing him again soon. Éponine/Enjolras/Combeferre.


Combeferre didn't hurt her, instead he left her with a comfortable feeling that made her feel more at home than she had anywhere else.

To be honest, Combeferre could never break her heart because he wasn't the one who had it.

Éponine Thénardier's heart belonged in the smooth hands of Combeferre's best friend. Every time she looked into her boyfriend's coffee eyes, she saw icy blue instead. When her fingers grasped his rough, straight hair, she convinced herself that she was touching curls the color of the sun.

He couldn't see her fake smile or her dead eyes. He couldn't see the way her hand occasionally went to her breast as if to feel for a heartbeat to ensure that she was still living.

Éponine missed screaming and fighting. She missed the ups and downs. She missed the horrible anger that quickly turned into passion before ether of them knew what they were arguing about.

Those times when she would run outside to escape him, the Seattle rain pouring in torrents, and he would follow her to the street. He would firmly push her chin to force her to look in his eyes as he tried to make his cynic girlfriend believe.

She would pull away and then hit him, angry that he wasn't listening- that he never would. No matter how violent she got, he never once hit her back. He took his revenge in a different way, for his passionate kisses were much more devastating than any blows that Éponine had ever endured. They would end up in the stairwell of their building, arguing between kisses and over discarded, wet clothing. Too many times had their neighbors complained, but never once did the couple pay attention.

Combeferre was gentle. He was thorough in his love and cautious in his caresses, as if she was made of glass. He was always on time for their dates, and he called her anytime anything went awry.

When Combeferre insisted on meeting her parents, a hesitant Éponine was pleasantly shocked when they got along famously. Her mother and sister were convinced that he was the prince she'd been waiting for her whole life, and her father was pleased with his money. However, Combeferre was smart enough to leave the Thénardier household with his wallet unopened. If that wasn't cause enough for infinite respect, Éponine didn't know what was.

Gavroche was the one who saw through her. He confronted her after a meeting at the Musain.

"Don't do this, Éponine." He told her. Gavroche, Éponine's precious brother, was grown up enough to pretend to understand her business. "You don't love him."

"I do," she lied, "In my own way."

Combeferre was the one who found her two weeks after the rally that changed everything. He was the one who stitched up her wounds and wiped the bathroom clean of her blood. He was the one who held her through the night. He was the one who took her the next day to lay a red rose on Enjolras' grave as a symbol of goodbye.

But it never really was goodbye, was it?

He was everywhere. Like a disease. And she couldn't complain. Wasn't that the first thing she wished after getting the phone call from Grantaire? That she would get to see him one last time?

Seeing him wasn't the same without the arguing, without the rush of emotions and the silent cursing of him when he stayed late at the Musain and she was still waiting up for him at 2 a.m. Nothing was anything without the insanity of loving someone a little too much.

Combeferre called her on the one-year anniversary of June 5th. He had to work late, and he was leaving her in the apartment that was filled with blond hair and blue eyes. There he was again, out of the corner of her eye. His lean figure standing in the doorway of the bathroom. She followed, as if in a trance.

The medicine cabinet was open, revealing the bottle of sleeping pills that was never opened. Éponine's path was clear to her at that moment.

He returned home to silence, something ominous and louder than one of Courfeyrac's clubs. With a sick feeling in his gut, he ran to the bathroom to see a limp hand hanging on the outside of the tub. He clutched her and called her name, but she didn't return to him. He supposed that he always knew that she belonged elsewhere, but he wanted to be there with her.

Combeferre called 911, although he knew that they would be unable to do anything. As the paramedics carried her away, he caught a glimpse of blond hair out of the corner of his eye. He followed it to the bedroom, and there, on her pillow, was a single sentence.

_I don't feel anything._

But Combeferre did, and he sank to the floor with his head in his hands. He should've known that he could never live up to the Adonis that was his best friend.

He loved her, but it wasn't enough.

To love and be loved in return is a beautiful thing, but to love an empty soul is an act of heroism.


End file.
